(Summary): Madeleine was only six years old when her father died. She used to want to be a writer, but her mother's criticism's got in the way, always telling her she couldn't make a living writing stories, and that she should be a journalist instead. Madeleine was a good child; she pursued journalism in college, and even wrote for the college paper, but she never felt the passion she had always known in her innocent younger years.
She slammed the door, dropping her notebook and letting her patterned messenger bag slip slowly off her shoulder and onto the floor. Why did it always take her this way? It wasn't the dean's fault he was such a collosal ass.
She ran her fingers down the braided throw her mother had said would look "so darling" on the back of the hand-me-down tartan sofa. The physical sensation calmed her mind, but did nothing to silence her quicky-beating heart. Why?Why
did Dean Petraus insist on...meh, bored now. Lost that story line...
Or--She growled as she slammed the door
. More feeling, I guess...
Taylor and Ashley and
Readers of my one and only published e-book
keep telling me that Madeleine needs a continuation. What can I say? Other writers understand--
wrote an entry
about characters, and how they sort of stand on their own. This is the best way I know to describe it; I'm sure Madeleine has a (longer) short story or a novel(la) or something rattling around somewhere, but she just isn't ready to tell it to me yet. Someday, maybe. Ariana, too.
Also--The above passage bears a large resemblence to one of the (several versions of the) opening chapters of Adrian and Makani's story. Thirteen years and counting, and I still
need to figure her character out.